


I hope you had fun

by eloquentelegance



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquentelegance/pseuds/eloquentelegance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime grows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I hope you had fun

You’re not like the other guardians. You don’t keep time the way they do. You’re not Santa or Bunny with specific holidays. You’re not like Sandy or Tooth with nightly shifts. You’re free to go where the wind takes you. Sometimes, literally. There’s always a cold front somewhere in the world. There’s always a some gardens to ice, some noses to chill, some windows to frost. You’ve been living for 300 or so years, drifting here and there. Sure, you’re not as old as Sandy or Santa or any of the rest. But you’re old. And you don’t keep time well.

So when you knock on Jaime’s window, it startles you some. He’s gotten tall. He’s taller than you maybe. Yeah, he’s definitely taller than you, broader shoulders and everything. He’s got the whole grown up package all wrapped up in baggy plaid and the same, open smile. At least that hasn’t changed. It’s still Jaime, still the kid who leaves cookies every Christmas, still the kid who hunts for Easter Eggs. It’s Jaime, just a lot more of him. A lot more.

“Hey, I thought you were never gonna show up!” He laughs, bright and clear as the first formed icicle.

And yeah, okay, he got bigger. So did North, and you didn’t think that was possible. Jaime still slides out the door and throws the first snowball like he always did, like he always does. He’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.

Except Jaime doesn’t stop there. He’s human and aging. It’s a thing humans do. They aren’t immortal like he is. It was just so easy to forget.

And it starts small, small things like shaving cuts and hickeys. You pretend not to notice. But he just keeps growing. Then he invites you to his wedding and it’s all down hill from there. It feels like your on a sled going too fast and too far and careening out of control. You just want to freeze Jaime. You want to stop him before it’s too late and he goes somewhere you can’t follow. But then he smiles at you, and it’s just the biggest, proudest smile. His teeth are pristine. Tooth would be proud. He’s grinning at you, in your little corner right by the judge. It’s wide and open and clear, like the skies after it snows. And it’s the same smile every single time for the last ten years. You know. You’ve had a front row seat for every single one.

When he kisses his new husband, you think of twilight. You think of sunset and moonrise. And you watch him live. And you watch him die, just a little more each day.

They adopt a little girl, pale as porcelain and frighteningly tiny. She’ll break hearts. She breaks her dads' well enough. They teach her how to walk. You teach her how to skate. Jaime’s husband will never understand. But he trusts Jaime. He doesn’t ask questions about the imaginary friend his partner and daughter share. And he makes superb snow angels. You like him. He keeps Jaime happy and loved. He’s a good dad.

Then he dies. He was 70 years old. It was heart failure. He was sleeping. It was soft and quiet. He never felt a thing. Jaime didn’t cry. Such was life. They were married for forty blissful years. It was his time. Jaime couldn’t bring himself to ask for more. He only smiled and merciful man in the moon, it was the same smile. It was lined with wrinkles and framed with facial hair. But you knew that smile just as well as you knew yours, maybe even better. No, definitely better.

It was the smile of frosted windows and untouched snow. It was the smile of sunlight through snowflakes. It was Jaime’s smile.  
He lays on his bed, half buried by sheets and pillows. His daughter’s downstairs with her husband. Their kids are tuckered out after an afternoon with you. They came over to check on Jaime. It’s been a month since the funeral. He’s got this awful cough. The doctor says it’s pneumonia. He says Jaime should be back on his feet soon. Jaime knows better. He asks his daughter to leave the windows open. His daughter forgot all about you. She went off to college and never saw you again. But she indulges Jaime all the same. She keeps the windows open. And Jaime greets you with a smile.

You think of moonset and night’s end.

“How are my grandkids?” He asks.

“Oh, you know, loud. Your granddaughter has an arm. I hope you’re proud. I think she broke a streetlamp.” You chuckle.

“That was naughty of her.”

“Hey, no worries. I can always pull some strings. Get in touch with the big man. You know how it is.”

Jaime laughs and it splutters into a coughing fit. You hop off the window sill and float by his side.

“You okay?”

“Oh, what this? It’s only a cough. I’ll be in better spirits soon.”

“You believe in the craziest things.”

“Hey, I believe in you, don’t I?”  
“And the Easter Bunny, and Santa, and the Sandman, and the Tooth Fairy. I know, I know.”

Jaime shakes his head, chuckling. There’s a brief silence before he speaks again. His head bowed and staring at his hands. “You were my first crush, you know?”

You blink. “I was?”

“That’s how I figured I was gay.” He nods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because…” He looks up. “I knew I’d leave you behind.”

And he smiles, gently and quietly, the first fallen snowflake.

“Jaime…” You whisper.

“I’ve gotten old, Jack. I’ve gotten old and I’m tired.” He reaches over and takes a hold of your hand. 

His palm is warm against yours. Worn and calloused fingers trace your knuckles. You can feel his touch, weathered and leathery from years and years of work and life in general. He squeezes your hand lightly, a reminder, a promise. 

And you squeeze back. You squeeze back and you remember his hug, years and years ago when he began to believe. It had been you’re first human contact in 300 years. 

“It’s been fun, Jack. It’s been so much fun. Did you have fun too?”

“The most I’ve ever had in my entire life.” You murmur.

He smiles. His eyes slip close and his grip slackens. And you fancy, for one moment, for one heartbeat you’re not sure you have, you fancy he’s sleeping. But there no trails of golden sand, no gilded images floating over his head.

You think of last pages and melting snow. You think of happy endings.

You let go.


End file.
